When I was between the ages of nine and eleven, we moved into our third house in Colorado. My new room in this home happened to be in the attic. It was small, but the entire floor was all mine. Between first and tenth grade we ended up living in no less than nine places, so looking back, there was a decent variety of spaces to compare it to. I imagine this one ended up being the most memorable because of the privacy it provided. It had its own full-sized staircase with a door at the bottom. There was also a window that faced the backyard which not only helped to give the room a complete feel, but, when necessary, eased the hot summer nights and allowed the droning of crickets to fill an otherwise extreme mountain silence. My parents rarely came up as it was just big enough for my twin bed, a dresser, and a kid sized desk. If my memory is correct, they couldn’t even stand up fully. This was the best real estate I was to occupy up until I was in my twenties.

Over the stairway was an ancient globe light fixture that had a pull string switch I could reach from my bed. For some reason my father had put a low wattage blue bulb in it, and this ended up being fortuitous. When I needed to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, it was plenty to illuminate the way, but I often used it for more clandestine reasons, reading.

Once I started third grade, I was already quite the reader. Not because it came naturally, but more because the idea itself was intoxicating and therefore a worthwhile and satisfying pursuit. My parents had started teaching me at home when I was quite young, and when I realized what was (possibly) printed on undiscovered pages, it was like discovering new worlds. I’m also sure that being an only child fed into my favorite pastime. For most of my childhood all I really wanted for gifts were books. I recall going to the school library (still in third grade) determined to check out the biggest book I could find and tackle it. Now, I was focused on the BIGGEST, which in my mind meant size, so I’m glad I didn’t go for “The Complete works of Shakespeare” or something of that nature. The one I did pick happened to be “The Wonderful Wizard of OZ”. Honestly, it was a real struggle. My parents helped when asked and I bleeped over a lot of words, but I did make it through.

Soon after finishing the novel we moved into the house I previously mentioned. A neighbor who was a friend of my parents, and was the manager of a bookstore, knew I’d done this and to my surprise bought me “The Marvelous Land of OZ” for Christmas the following year, which is the second book in the original series of fourteen. I had no idea the storyline continued. When I found this out I went out of my freaking mind, and she was thrilled. She also bought me the complete boxed set of “Winnie the Pooh” which I adored. We called her ‘skinny Jenny’ and she was, but I remember her more for being very pretty and sweet. She had no children of her own so I suppose that played into her motives. In any case, Baum ended up as a staple in my library, even to this day. We knew her long enough for her to introduce me at a later age to the “Chronicles of Narnia” and “The Phantom Tollbooth”. The books she enthusiastically gifted ended up being my go-to fantasy escapes for years. To this day “Tollbooth” is still my favorite book.

Most nights, after I knew my parents were asleep, I’d quietly pop on my light, dim though it was, and read for hours, always with mixed feelings of paranoia that I’d be caught, and euphoria that I was getting away with it. At some point I had a little flashlight I used occasionally under my covers (this felt better, probably because it was sneakier) but batteries were hard to come by. One of my other stand-by authors during this time was Thornton W. Burgess who wrote the “Old Mother West Wind” series, which no one seems to remember these days even though he wrote close to one hundred seventy books.

Being read to by various teachers back in the day was my favorite class activity. It easily eclipsed art projects, softball, or even recess, and it too spurned me to continue feeding the habit. Here is where I first heard “James and the Giant Peach” (along with other Roald Dahl titles), “The Pushcart War” and “Half Magic” and at least a dozen other long forgotten titles.

By fourth and fifth grade my path found the Henry Reed series and Beverly Cleary’s collection, which included the joyful “The Mouse and the Motorcycle. “Charlotte’s Web” and “Stewart Little” by E. B. White were there as well. The road of discovery continued later through Edgar Rice Burroughs’ library, which I’ve often called ‘romance novels for guys’. Several hundred of his titles (I was an avid collector for years) in various editions, some extremely rare, still sit on my shelves to this day. As I grew older new interests and more serious publications caught my eye. In the eighties newspapers (remember those?) and magazines, particularly those of a scientific nature, were common distractions. Eventually my tastes shifted into self-help, psychological, and even spiritual titles, especially once I sobered up in nineteen ninety-five. Wayne W. Dyer, Alan Watts, and Viktor E. Frankl are currently part of my ever expanding foundation of influence. Audio books are a large part of my itinerary these days as well, and sites like YouTube provide an almost endless supply of free, previously unconsidered publications. Altogether my library consists of about three hundred audio titles and three thousand print ones, and no… I have NOT read them all.

One thing is certain, reading, whether it’s in tactile form or in audio format, definitely continues to feed my imagination, creativity, and probably most importantly, my intentionally evolving point of view. I hope the journey never wanes. I’m blessed to have had such passionate teachers, friends, and family who guided me into the world of other people’s expression.

And now we come the the point of why I wanted to write this post on a blog that is focused on self-help and recovery for beginners. If you’re feeling empty, lost, or overwhelmed, read, please trust me. Contrary to what one may think, (most) books don’t really take the reader anywhere but inward, to the spirit. They unmask and reveal our inner selves, and that’s the best discovery of all.

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With Love and Compassion, Daniel Andrew Lockwood